Life At 23
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard, and realized she had a small problem


Title: Life at 23  
Author: Silverkitsune  
Summary: Old Mother Hubbard Went To The Cupboard  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: G  
Pairing: None  
Warnings: None  
Disclaimer: Static Shock is the property of the WB and all other associated networks and creators. I am making no profit from this. I am however having a disgusting amount of fun.

Author's Note: I had this sitting on my computer..I think I may have posted is somewhere once upon a time, but I figured I might as well stick it up here as well.

Part 1/1

Outside of the five story apartment building, located at 401 south Orion Rd, sheets of rain pounded leaves the color of gold and old blood into the wet, gray pavement. On the inside, specifically in apartment 5E, the humidity had managed to make every single one of Virgil's kitchen cabinets stick shut.

"I can not believe this," he mumbled to himself. Wrapping both hands securely around the cabinet's handle, he braced his feet against the kitchen counter and pulled. The door came open with the loud scrape of wood against wood, and grinning with triumph Virgil stuck his hand inside the dark, feeling around for something to eat. He felt nothing but the flat, cheap, wood the cabinets were made out of. Confused, he pried open the next one and reached inside. Again he found nothing.

"Aw, no," Virgil moaned leaning back against the kitchen table. Ritchie had found the table one day when they'd gone garbage picking for furniture. One of its legs was shorter than the rest and it tilted under his weight. "There's got to be a mistake."

Grabbing the handle of yet another cabinet, he yanked it open and shoved his head into the small dark space.

"Ritchie," he called his voice muffled. "Hey Ritchie!"

He's answer came in the form of a long suffering groan.

Pulling his head out of the cabinet, Virgil turned around to see a tired looking Ritchie stumble into the room. Though it was the middle of the day he was still clad in the t-shirt and Ghostbusters boxers that made up his pajamas. Dark circles had appeared behind the 23- year- old's glasses, and his normally pale skin now looked almost translucent. Rubbing his eyes, the other boy collapsed into one of the four mismatching kitchen chairs and pillowed his head into his folded arms.

"How do we have no food?" Virgil asked.

Ritchie only moaned in response. "Oh, man, I'm so sick."

Moving down the line of cabinets, Virgil pried each one open in turn, and stuck his head inside. "Did you not go to the store or something? It was your turn."

"Oh, God," Ritchie mumbled into the pillow of his arms. "Oh, God I feel so horrible."

"Even if you didn't go, I went last week, and I bought a whole lot of stuff. There's no way we ate that much in two weeks," Virgil said scratching his head. "Right?"

"I'm dying," Ritchie moaned.

"You are not dying," Virgil responded bending down to check the bottom row of cabinets. "You've just got a bad flu."His toe caught the edge of the Lazy Susan and he gave it a quick spin.

Ritchie lifted his head. "I'm dying and you don't care," he wailed.

"You are such a wuss when you're sick," Virgil huffed in annoyance. He found a tupperware that had housed a batch of Sharon's cookies, and he wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or horrified at the fact that all that remained were crumbs.

Ritchie stuck his tongue out at Virgil.

"Very mature Rich, very mature." Giving up his quest for nourishment, Virgil sat down on the cracked linoleum floor, his back against the cabinets. A long strip of peeling white paint curled near his fingers. Taking it in his hand he began to strip the piece of furniture. "Remind me again. How did you become one of the youngest employees ever hired by Wayne Tech?"

"The same way you became a chef down at _Gaiman's,_," Ritchie said tiredly. "I walked into the building and filled out an application."

"Ritchie, Ritchie, Ritchie," Virgil scolded. "If you think that was a formidable quip then I'm afraid the fever has finally reached your brain, and it's time for you to be put out of your misery."

"Shut up," Ritchie mumbled, returning his head to the table. "Table's nice and cold."

That got Virgil's attention. "Um, actually Ritch. The whole apartment is in what I like to call sauna mode on account of the rain. It's got to be at least 80 degrees in here."

Ritchie shook his head. "I'm cold."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should go back to that mattress-on-the-floor-of–your-room–that-you–insist-is-a-bed, and lie down."

"Just because it doesn't have a frame doesn't mean it's not a bed," Ritchie insisted.

"Whatever." Pushing himself off the floor, Virgil walked over to the table and bent down to get a better look at Ritchie. "You do look horrible."

"It's because I'm dying."

"You are not- never mind." Quickly checking his back pockets for keys and wallet, Virgil turned away from Ritchie and headed for the door. "I'm going to the store to replenish our dangerously low food supply. Go lie down. I'll bring you back some chicken soup."

"Can it be chicken and stars?" Ritchie asked getting to his feet.

Fingers brushing against the doorknob, Virgil gave Ritchie an amused look. "What are you eight?"

"This coming from the guy who won't eat pancakes unless they're in the shape of his initials?" Ritchie said with a sly smile.

"Hey!" Virgil said indignantly. "My mama used to make them like that!"

"Glass house Virgil. Stones. Don't throw them." Ritchie called over his shoulder as he shuffled to his room.

Rolling his eyes, Virgil walked into the hallway. Locking the door behind him.


End file.
